


Sense of Security

by BeatThief



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyguard AU, Canon-Typical Violence, G1ish, M/M, Multi, Other, Prowl and Jazz are bros, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16854031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatThief/pseuds/BeatThief
Summary: Prowl is far from a fool. He knows the danger he’s in, and he’s not going to argue the security detail he’s been assigned. His main escorts, however, may be more than he’s willing to put up with.Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are members of the Primal vanguard, ordered to guard a member of the Praxian military. Until further notice, their job is to keep him alive. If they don’t end up killing him themselves first.





	1. Chapter 1

The shot goes wide, but just barely. He can feel the heat of the bolt streak past his chevron and clip the upper edge of his wing, searing pain scoring across his sensor net. Someone in the crowd screams and chaos erupts. 

He feels the impact of the ground against his side before he can process what's happening. The guards around him are scrambling, and a mech Prowl can’t place has thrown himself on top of him. The civilians around them are frenzied, scrambling for cover and crying out. 

Another shot shrieks through the air, and over the screams, Prowl can hear the sickening burn of plasma through plating. Warm wetness splatters across his frame before rough servos grip Prowl under his arms. He’s dragged out from under the other mech’s frame and hauled to his peds, damaged doorwing scraping harshly against the ground. 

The guard tucks Prowl against her side, shielding him with her bulky frame and dragging him away from the chaos. They stumble and duck and dart around the stabilizing guard formations. 

Prowl fights to reroute his processing threads, forcing his sensors to ignore the spreading agony in his wing and focus on the turmoil around him. He twists against the femme’s hold on his arm. If he could just see—just find the angle of the shots—!

But it’s too late. The ranks close around them, jostling them forward, toward safety, and his line of sight is blocked by the panicked mob behind him. The mass of bodies is thrust into safety in the senatorial building, the senators and nobles and Prowl himself herded into the back rooms. Ignoring the wailing of a Praxian duke, Prowl’s battle computer whirls to life, compiling a list of suspects and targets and motives. 

He moves around the room on autopilot, scanning doorwings for security insignias as he goes. There are less mecha back here than in the entrance hall, but it’s still crowded, and the room is choked with fields roiling with terror and anxiety. 

It isn’t until after the shouting and jostling has died down, that Prowl notices one of the senators staring at him, wings ridged and high in horror. He slows his thought process long enough to fully acknowledge her. He extends his field toward her, reaching to assist, perhaps to comfort, but she stumbles back, field reeling violently; what little he is able to feel is jagged and sick. 

She continues to stare, optics bleached nearly to white and locked on his chest plate. For the first time, Prowl spares a glance for himself. In rerouting his battle computer, he had failed to notice the energon covering his frame. The bright blue is splattered heavily across his front, and now that he acknowledges it, he can feel it in the gaps in his plating, drying and flaking into the wires underneath. 

After completing a quick scan, he concludes that, aside from his doorwing, he is not injured. The energon is not his.

\-----

A few joors later, it is decided unanimously over a private video conference that Prowl is to now be accompanied by a personal security detail. Prowl’s own superiors will hear nothing against it, and the officials in Iacon immediately offer to send their own mechs as part of the team. Prowl offers little protest as the others decide on the details, concerned with other things, and knowing that arguing will do nothing for him. He ends the call as soon as he can and goes to hunt down the enforcers taking statements. 

Between giving his own statement and coordinating with his staff, it is many joors before Prowl is able to return home; Jazz is waiting for him when he does. The Polyhexian is upon him as soon as he enters the sitting room. 

“Prowler!” His field washes over Prowl in a warm sweep, and he leans into it hungrily. His struts loosen, and he feels his wings quiver. Jazz fusses over him, lifting his arms, inspecting his plating, and muttering churlishly to himself as Prowl relaxes. As much as Prowl had been looking forward to solitude and silence, the company of a close friend is surprisingly welcome. 

Jazz slips behind him and snarls at the patch of static mesh over his doorwing, gently pulling it down so he can peer at it more closely. Satisfied that Prowl is relatively unharmed, Jazz comes back to his front and—having taken note of the energon caked in the seams of his chestplate—wordlessly drags Prowl into the washracks. 

Jazz adjusts the solvent, pushes Prowl in, and starts in on his plating. Used to the ritual by now, Prowl allows it with no complaint. As much as Prowl enjoys living alone, he admits there are benefits to having a select few people close by. 

Jazz is one such person. An agent in and from Polyhex, Jazz works often with Prowl and his team, and had somehow wormed his way into Prowl’s very small group of trusted friends. 

As Jazz scrubs, dries, and buffs Prowl’s armor, Prowl continues to relax, content to leave his friend to his bustling. Finally satisfied with Prowl’s state, Jazz guides him into his berthroom and settles him onto the low backed couch there.

Standing above him, he takes Prowl’s face into his servos, pressing his helm to Prowl’s chevron. Prowl leans into the embrace, pulsing his field back in reassurance. Jazz hums unhappily. 

“I’m glad ya ain’t more hurt,” he says at last, his first full sentence since Prowl had come home. 

“As am I.”

“What happened out there? They got everything locked down tight, I only heard there was some kinda assault.”

Pulling away, Prowl leans back against the arm of the couch, judging how much he wishes to tell Jazz. As he does, Jazz pulls a cube out of his subspace and passes it to Prowl. He takes it gratefully, swallowing half of it in one go and flicking his wings in thanks. Jazz plops down on the low table in front of the couch and waits. 

Prowl dims his optics and weighs his options. Jazz would find out eventually, one way or another. “It was a sniper. They were set up in one of the buildings across from the public address. They missed the intended target. They took three shots, and escaped in the resulting confusion. There was very little evidence left at the scene.”

Prowl knows Jazz is unhappy with the news, but his friend gives nothing away. “Who was the target? I heard there were casualties.”

Yes, there had been. Prowl had learned, through watching one of the security vids, that the mech who had tackled Prowl had done so in an effort to shove him away. A second blaster shot had pierced his central processor, and he had faded before any medic could reach him. The energon Prowl had been covered in had been his. Though he had been given solvent and cloths to clean up with at the scene, and Jazz had cleaned his plating to Prowl’s exacting standards, he imagined he could still feel it, creeping into his lines and wiring.

Prowl stalls, draining the last of his cube before cycling a deep intake and stilling his doorwings. “Me.”

\-----

Sunstreaker stares out at the approaching Praxian skyline as Sideswipe fidgets beside him. Having been trapped on the transport for almost ten joors, Sunstreaker can't really blame him. His own plating itches with claustrophobia. Neither of them have ever dealt well with confinement. 

The reassignment to Praxus isn't a huge shock; as two of the better combatants in the Primal Vanguard, the twins are no strangers to bodyguard duty. 

It is, however, their first time in Praxus. 

Sunstreaker knows Sideswipe is eager to get his wheels on the freeways—absent of Iacon’s strict speed limits—and really let himself go. Sunstreaker himself awaits the sight of Praxus’s famed Crystal Gardens. Even if they are here on assignment, they're guaranteed at least some personal time off. Especially on an extended mission like this one. 

Still. Even with his brother’s excitement, something curls ugly and anxious inside Sunstreaker’s spark. 

Sideswipe’s excitement wriggles its way through their bond, determined to push the feeling out, and Sunstreaker crosses his arms over his chest. 

_Don't forget, this is a job,_ he reminds his brother -- a bit harshly, he knows. He hates to quash Sideswipe’s eagerness, but he needs him to stay focused. 

_I know,_ Sideswipe shoots back. _I can multitask. Besides, this Prowl’s some government type, right? Probably stays in his office all orn. How much trouble could he possibly get into?_

 _Someone already tried to take his helm off. Sounds like they got pretty close, too._

_People take potshots at the government all the time. Trust me, this’ll be a cruise._

Sunstreaker knows that Sideswipe knows just how important Prowl is. He knows Sideswipe will take this as seriously as he is meant to. Because he knows this, Sunstreaker does not shove his brother across their bond. Much. 

Sideswipes huffs in amusement and knocks his shoulder against his brother’s as the transport finally touches down. As the shuttle doors hiss open, Sides leads Sunstreaker out to the waiting group of praxians, and grins over his shoulder. 

_C’mon, bro. What's the worst that could happen?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I meant to have this up, like, a month ago, but somehow, everything I had written for it got deleted; even the stuff for future chapters. So I had to go back and rewrite everything. Sorry?

The property’s not huge, but it's far more extravagant than either twin is used to on their salaries. Sideswipe gazes around the room in awe, nearly tripping over the low table in the center of their new lodgings. Sunstreaker can't blame him. There’s a full entertainment system on the left side of the room, and the berth looks absurdly soft. The entire far right wall is made of plexiglass, letting in a floor to ceiling view of the gardens outside; the sunlight on the crystals reflects in a rainbow of colors on the ceiling of the room. 

Sideswipe flops down on the berth and lets out a nearly obscene moan. _Primus below. Sunny, get over here,_ he demands. Sunstreaker stays where he is. He can feel his brother’s near bliss over their bond, warm and soft and beckoning around his struts. In the new, strange environment, though, he doesn't think he can relax. 

Instead, he gazes out the window. There's a mech puttering around the grounds, tending to the crystals in the gardens. Sunstreaker knows his name is Cutter, knows the names of all the staff on the property, but can’t help the suspicion creeping through his processor. Anyone could be a danger here. 

Annoyance jabs sharp down the bond, and Sideswipe huffs irritably at him from the berth. 

_Sunny, not everyone is a hitmech._

_Someone is. And we don't know who._ He hears Sideswipe sit up behind him as the gardener putters out of sight.

_Bro, come on. We’re not even on duty yet. Save it for tomorrow, yeah? Besides, it’s not even our job to find the guy._ Sunstreaker shrugs uncertainly as his brother comes up behind him. Sideswipe hooks his arms over his shoulders and nuzzles into the back of Sunstreaker’s neck. _Look. No one’s going to try anything so soon after yesterday. And definitely not with so much security running around. Come get settled in, and you can start being your usual snarly self tomorrow._

Finally, Sunstreaker relents. “Yeah,” he mutters as Sides tugs him over to the berth. “Alright.”

Sideswipe grins at him, and falls back onto the pillows again. “Oh Primus. I’m never getting out of this berth again.” Sunstreaker rolls his optics and shoves his twin over, stretching out next to him, and sinking into the cushions. It's every bit as good as Sideswipe says. 

They lay for a while, luxuriating in the softness, and Sunstreaker is almost half way to recharge before Sideswipe stirs over their bond again. He’s mulling something over, mischief winding its way through his spark as he remembers their arrival earlier that day. Sunstreaker slants a cautious look at him, bracing himself. _You know, Prowl’s kinda hot. Maybe after all this is over…_

Sunstreaker promptly shoves him off the berth.

\-----

Skyshard hands him the data pad before he’s even fully seated. Prowl takes it, powers it on, and freezes. 

“Decepticons? Are we sure?”

“One of their badges was found in the shooter’s nest,” Skyshard says, making his way back to the head of the table. “Unrest has been growing in the lower levels; I’m not surprised they’ve tried something like this. Iacon’s been inundated with attacks such as these. A suspect was caught on one of the vid tapes fleeing the scene; we’ve made no progress in apprehending or identifying him, however.” 

Prowl looks Skyshard over as the senior officer sits down. The mech’s plating is dull and scuffed, no doubt from the chaos of the previous orn, and Prowl predicts he will be in a similar state soon enough, concern for his paintjob falling to the wayside in favor of hunting down leads. Though he no longer works directly for the enforcers, Prowl has had a difficult time letting go of many of his old habits, never quite casting off the urge to sink his denta into a case and not let go. 

Barricade cuts in before Skyshard can continue. 

“Hmph. With the way they’ve been moving in Polyhex, knew it was only a matter of time before they came to Praxus. Needs to be stopped before it goes any further.”

“When was the badge found?” Prowl asks, skimming over the datapad in his servo, something in his battle computer itching at his processor. “Early this morning? Why wasn’t it found sooner?”

“What does it matter?” Barricade scoffs. “We finally have a lead. And I know just what to do about it, too.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“There are a few clubs in the lower levels who’ve been known to have Con sympathies. I’m willing to bet we’ll find our would-be assassin in one of them.” Due to Praxus’ economic success, the lower levels of the city are nowhere near as impoverished as some of their neighbors; however, they are still inhabited by the lowest castes of the city. It was no surprise to any of them that there would be Decepticon sympathizers to be found there.

“What would you suggest we do?” Skyshard inquires. “A full scale pogrom against the Decepticons would only cause further unrest in the population. Unrest that we simply cannot afford.”

“It wouldn't be too hard to bring the clubs up on other charges,” suggests Smokescreen, sitting slouched to Prowl’s right and scrolling through his own pad. “Illegal gambling, drug possession, mob ties.” Catching Prowl’s look, he sits up straighter and fans out his wings. “None of them would be false charges, of course. The local enforcers have plenty of reports to look into. Obtaining a warrant will be easy enough, and any other evidence gathered during the search will be fair game.”

Skyshard leans back in his seat, deliberating, before nodding decisively. “Yes. Very well. A specialized task force will be assembled within the local enforcers. Barricade, Smokescreen, you and your teams will assist them. I want this investigated as quickly and thoroughly as possible.”

Prowl twitches, helm snapping up from his datapad as he catches the insinuation. “Sir,” he interrupts, wings held ridged. “I must request that you place me at the head of this investigation. I have far-”

“Denied.”

“Sir-!”

“Prowl, I have no doubt in your skills or in your drive. I know you could manage this well. However, you are far too close to it for me to allow you to become anymore involved. I will not further risk your safety when Barricade is fully capable of doing what needs to be done. And I have full faith that your second will do just as well.”

Reluctantly, Prowl’s doorwings lower in agreement with his assessment, and the surprise and pride in Smokescreen’s field is not quite enough to cover the smugness in Barricade’s. 

“Smokescreen, you will report to Barricade for everything concerning the shooting, and your duties for Prowl will be halted until further notice.”

“Yessir!”

Barricade’s plating fluffs incrementally, and something like pleasure darts through his field before he stamps it out. Prowl frowns, but says nothing, knowing Skyshard will not go back on his decision. 

“Dismissed.”

\------

An ache radiates through his frame as he shifts from his position at his desk, his processor overheating and the still healing burn on his doorwing itching painfully. His chronometer ticks into the small hours of the morning and he winces, rubbing at the pinched line at the bottom of his spinal strut. He sighs and tilts his helm back, soaking in the silence and stillness after hours of work on the datapads. 

Prowl is used to long joors at his desk, but the quiet is always a balm to his overworked processor. 

After a moment, he shuts down his terminal, locks away half the datapads, subspaces the other half, and finally stands. His joints creak in protest, and he has to stretch his doorwings to rid them of stiffness. 

His office door slides open and he’s almost startled to see the two mechs waiting for him outside. 

Lashup and Blowby stand at attention on either side of the office door, sentries in the middle of the deserted hallway. 

He had completely forgotten about them. 

He struggles not to wince in embarrassment and locks the door behind him as he departs. His two shadows follow behind him silently. 

Voltage had assembled Prowl’s new security detail, all selected based on a variety of skills, experience, and discretion. Prowl trusts Voltage, but had nonetheless scoured each of the personnel files himself. 

Lashup and Blowby are both highly accredited veterans in the field of security, and Prowl sees the evidence for himself as they arrive at his small estate. 

They work efficiently together as they check each of the rooms one by one. Prowl waits patiently in the foyer for them to finish, and finds himself thinking of the two foreigners somewhere else in the house. 

Prowl knows that, as members of the Primal Vanguard, they are both more than qualified to be personal guards. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had arrived earlier that morning as Prowl was leaving. Their introductions had been short, but the two guards Iacon sent had made an imposing pair. 

Weighed down with armor and weapons, they had held themselves confidently, shrewdly scanning the interior of the building and their fellow teammates. With an obvious combination of physical skill and intelligence, anyone who wanted to make a direct move against Prowl would certainly think twice upon seeing them. 

Starting the next day, they will be his primary escorts, remaining with him throughout the day, and residing within the property for the entirety of their stay. 

Along with several other members of the security team, Prowl is at least well protected, and while Prowl isn’t exactly happy with the intrusion, he understands the necessity.

As Blowby gives the all clear from the top of the stairs, and he and Lashup return to change shifts with two more guards, Prowl muses that at least Jazz would be pleased. 

Jazz had been gone when Prowl woke that morning, though it is no surprise at all. Prowl has known for a while now that it’s impossible to keep Jazz in one place for long—even for an orn— and Prowl has long given up trying; and while he’s sure that Jazz is out finding his way in to trouble somewhere, he’s also sure that Jazz will find his way out of it. Or at least will know when to call for help. 

Prowl makes his way to his office, intending to finish at least a few more datapads, and passes the guest rooms. He hesitates as he passes by, listening for any hint of the two mechs inside. When he receives only silence, he shakes off the feeling of uncertainty, forcing himself to move forward. 

While he still feels odd about the idea of two strangers residing in his home, regardless of why they’re there, he can only hope they needn’t remain for long.


End file.
